Deaths in Sanford are No Accident
by All-Knowing Alien 2
Summary: An idea, inspired by Jess, which never went away. Hints of 'homoerotic tendencies'. SherlockJohn. Attempted crack that became more serious than intended. Some references to Guy Richie's Sherlock Holmes, which I also do not own.


"Remind me why we're here again?"

"You have a perfectly adequate memory, John. I don't see why you cannot recall the reason yourself."

The shorter man cast a flat look towards his flatmate (this was quite lost on Sherlock as he was busy with his phone – not his usual one, but the pink iPhone that had been sent to him by Moriarty. John had found it quite odd, which one would argue was par the course with Sherlock, but honestly; using a phone given to you by an insane criminal mastermind? He just didn't understand it). "Humour me."

A disgusted sigh. "After that hideous debacle at the pool, Mycroft thinks it best that I not _push myself _solving any more cases. Unfortunately that idiot Lestrade agrees, so I've been bundled off into the country."

"Right. And, why am I here again?"

This time Sherlock did look up, giving him a wide-eyed look that actually didn't look feigned. "Don't you want to be?"

John looked down, sighing, but with a tiny, tiny smile. _Now that wasn't fair_.

"John?"

Luckily he was spared having to come up with a response by the lighting up of (the replica of) the 'Pink Lady's' phone, and Sherlock's subsequent distraction.

"Who are you texting, anyway?"

"Hmm? Oh. Drug lord."

Blink. Surely he'd heard wrong. "Drug lord?"

"Yep." Sherlock hit send, then locked the phone and placed it in his top left breast pocket. He leaned back into his seat and turned his head to face the doctor beside him, letting his fingers interlace and rest on his lap. "So, you were going to tell me why you're objecting to a holiday?"

"I don't object, I just… Why Sanford?"

"Well, of all the country homes we have, the one in Sanford is the least ostentatious."

This made more questions pop up in John's head. Like: '_How many houses does the Holmes' family have?' 'If he has so many of them, how come he needs a flatmate?' _and '_Sherlock commenting on ostentatious-ness? Really?'_

"No other reason, then?"

"What are you trying to imply, John?"

The doctor shifted in his seat, crossing his legs at the ankles. "Well, it's just, I didn't think that you'd willingly give in to Mycroft' and Lestrade's requests."

Laughter that made his toes curl in his shoes. (John then frowned; he had a hole in his left sock, judging by the fact that he could feel the inside of his shoe against the skin of his big toe.)

"Are you suggesting that we're going to Sanford because it's more likely to have some sort of case I can solve?"

A shrug. Frankly, it wouldn't surprise him – okay, fine, he was still surprised at some of the things that Sherlock got up to, but the point was that he shouldn't have been, given the frequency of Sherlock getting up to whatever strange things he did.

"Well, don't worry. I'm not about to manufacture some sort of explosion in the centre of the 'Village of the Year'."

John didn't comment on the rather poor choice of words – explosion indeed – and instead asked, "There's actually a competition for that?"

"Apparently." Sherlock sighed, a noisy exhalation of air and let his head tip backwards. "I can guarantee, John, that this _vacation_ will be duller than the soaps you like to watch on the telly."

"Oi, don't knock it until you've tried it."

"I was under the impression that you didn't want me trying it," the consulting detective said, smirking. His phone – his actual phone – chimed, and he patted his pockets for awhile before emitting a little 'Ah', and reaching into John's coat.

To his credit, John didn't blink.

OoOoOoOoOo

Sergeant Nicholas Angel glared at the body on the ground.

He was quite good at glaring, he'd been told. People quailed when he glared at them. (He remembered the late Peter Cocker running away from his glare – though that may have had more to do with the fact that Nicholas had caught him nicking biscuits.) More relevantly, he was good at his job – which was important, considering they had a murder on their hands.

However, he was struck with the rather uncharitable and irrational annoyance towards the deceased for being killed when they were so understaffed (not that the Sanford Police Service was overflowing with police officers). Wainwright and Cartwright were holidaying in the Andes – yes, ahaha, very droll – while Tony was down with a nasty cold (which he had caught from the still-bedridden Turner brothers), and Doris on her honeymoon.

"Poor old Luke."

Nicholas glanced to the side, at Danny who had come up beside him. "Know him?" he asked, crossing his arms.

"Yeah. Not many gingers in Sanford and Luke's pretty distinctive if you get what I mean." He snorted. "Thirty years old, and no bigger than me thumb."

This cracked a wry smile out of Nicholas, though he sobered and asked, "What'd the paramedics have to say?"

Shrug. "'Sides the fact that he died 'bout twelve hours ago? Nothin'. They dunno how he died yet."

"Hmm. Right, get PC Walker to get him to the morgue, you set up a perimeter, I'll go question the bird that found him."

OoOoOoOoOo

"John."

"Hmm?"

"'M bored."

"I know. You've told me that a hundred times already."

"You're exaggerating."

"It's what it feels like."

Sherlock huffily settled into the armchair, and blissful silence reigned long enough for John to finish one page of the novel he was reading. One whole page. Granted, it was mostly dialogue.

"John, did you bring along your gun?"

"I'm not going to let you have my gun just because you're bored, Sherlock." 

"I just want to know where it is. In case of emergencies."

Not buying the story for a second, the doctor replied sarcastically, "I stuffed it down the front of my pants."

He managed to finish one and a half paragraphs, quite intent on his book – it was really quite interesting, there were pirates and dragons and magic swords and everything, and despite that it was believable and –

Due to his training, John managed to grab the questing hand before it could go any further into his trousers. He should really have been more alarmed as to how quickly Sherlock had unbuttoned and unzipped it, but what he was actually feeling was resignation.

"I was joking."

"Oh."

"If you'd move your hand, thanks."

"Right."

John let go of Sherlock's wrist, and the consulting detective obligingly removed his hand, and sat himself beside his flatmate without preamble. Said flatmate was actually able to get to the next chapter before a voice popped up with, "I know it's not very practical to wish for it to be two weeks in the future, but I wish it was."

"That's nice, Sherlock."

Silence lapsed.

"_Daryl the Bitter," whispered Liana. "He's the one you want to get in contact with."_

_Emilie pursed her lips. "Why's he called 'the Bitter'?"_

"_His children turned on him. That's the only reason why he isn't a Captain." A grin. "Unlike me."_

_The dark-haired girl was very much aware of the fact – because she was in the Captain's Suite of the _Sea Knife_. She had come aboard for information. She hadn't thought that she'd have to give something in return for that information._

"_Now, you stay right here," said the Captain, running a finger along the chain connecting Emilie's right wrist to the bedpost. "While I get my First Mate."_

_Oh. The First Mate was quite famous. It was an odd dichotomy that she was so free with her whip, and yet still loved by the crew. Emilie didn't know how to feel about her being fetched while she was chained to the Captain's bed._

_Liana noticed. "Not to worry," she said briskly, getting to her feet and sheathing her sword. "There's a reason why Anila is my lover." The pirate captain winked before replacing her three-cornered hat. Just before leaving the room, she stopped and said, almost as an afterthought, "If you try to leave, I'll have you fed to Jim."_

_Jim growled in response. His teeth glinted wickedly in the light, and Emilie really didn't need her overactive imagination telling her that his grin looked very much like he was thinking –_

"I'm hungry."

John blinked, considered ignoring Sherlock, then glanced at his watch and shut his book. "Dinner?"

"Wonderful."

OoOoOoOoOo

It took almost thirty five minutes (and detailed explanations of six of the restaurant's patrons) for the waitress (and owner) of the Royale to come over and take their orders.

"I'm terribly sorry," she said, pushing her hair behind her ears. Even John could tell that she was Australian. (It was the accent.)

"Busy?" he asked, smiling. (Sherlock gave him a fondly exasperated look, perhaps because he personally didn't see the point in pointing out the obvious – the biggest reason why he failed spectacularly at small talk.)

"Well, yeah. The people in this village think they're being subtle when they want information. Would you like the house special?"

"Please," replied Sherlock. "And a cranberry juice."

"Right, on the house, yeah? We're not usually this late."

"It's not a problem. I'll have the fish and chips, and a…pint of lager."

"Great, I'll be right back."

John tapped his fingers on the tabletop. "Don't you drink, then?"

"Rarely. Alcohol hardly sharpens the senses." Sherlock had his eyes trained on John's hand. "You know this already."

"Yeah, but we're on holiday."

The _disgust_ on his face. "Ugh. Don't remind me."

"Most people like the chance to relax." As soon as the words left his mouth, John knew they didn't exactly apply to the man opposite him. His fingers continued their drumming, not to any particular rhythm – or so he thought. Sherlock had actually recognised it as a pretty good rendition of his favourite violin piece – missing a few notes and completely wrecking the tempo in some parts, but pretty good for someone who had no musical training whatsoever.

"You know very well I'm not 'most people'." As if to prove his point, Sherlock extended a single finger and placed it squarely in the middle of the back of John's hand.

John stopped his finger tapping.

Someone cleared their throat.

"Cranberry juice and a pint of lager?"

John snatched his hand back as if burned. "Yeah! Yeah. That's us."

She smiled at them as she placed the mats on the table and the glasses on those. Maybe he was being paranoid, but there was something _knowing_ about her look. What she knew was something of a mystery to him, but it was likely to be something he disagreed with.

"Thank you, Jessica."

John glanced belatedly at her nametag.

"No problem."

"So, uh, what information was it? That the villagers wanted to get from you?"

A shrug. "Eh, there was a dead body on Thistle Road. Luke Reardon. The police wanted to talk about it and since this place is so small, everyone and their mum knows I found it."

"That must've been shocking," John said, not really sure what to say; too well brought up to change the subject abruptly or dismiss her, but still not wanting to continue the line of conversation – knowing that it was dangerous.

Shrugging again, Jessica said, "Not really. If you'll excuse me, I need to attend to my other customers."

Before any question or proposition or suggestion could be put forward, before Sherlock could open his mouth, even, John stated firmly, "No."

"'No' what?"

"Just no. I know what you're thinking, Sherlock. The answer's no."

"You don't want to go to visit the miniature village?"

John narrowed his eyes. "Don't try to act innocent. It doesn't suit you."

Sherlock sighed. "Very well. We shall not involve ourselves in this mystery."

"Precisely, we – wait, what?" John asked, derailed from his righteous lecture. He'd been prepared to explain that they were on holiday, and the precise point of them being there in Sanford was to avoid this kind of thing – murders and mysteries – and they were _not_ going to go help the Sanford police, especially because they wouldn't appreciate it. Not everyone was Lestrade (or, briefly, Dimmock).

"I thought you would appreciate it."

"I, I, I'm just surprised, is all." He hadn't expected Sherlock to consider his feelings on the matter at all. To cover his stammering he took a large gulp of his drink, avoiding too-observant grey eyes. Something horrible dawned on him and his head snapped back to his companion. "This isn't some kind of reverse psychology, is it?"

"No."

"Pardon me if I don't believe you."

Sherlock started tracing patterns in the sweat that had developed on his glass, while lip reading the conversation at the table across the room. (Farm business, dull.) "What exactly are you opposed to?"

John huffed a laugh. "You probably know all my reasons and have responses for every one."

"True," was the reply, Sherlock inclining his head. "And let me just say; there are still about 300 hours left 'til we leave for London. And you know very well how disagreeable I get when I'm bored."

A sigh.

Jessica came back to the table, with two plates, and Sherlock grinned at her. "Can you give me directions to the police office?"

OoOoOoOoOo

"Sarge?"

Nicholas, who was in Captain Fisher's office, looked up. "Yeah, Danny?"

"There's a Sherlock Holmes wants to see you. Says he wants to help with the Reardon case."

"Who's he?"

Danny shrugged. "Dunno. Name's a bit familiar though – I think he's related to the lady who owns the manor down by the lake." The empty and quite expansive manor down by the lake.

Raised eyebrows, but Nicholas decided not to comment on that particular bit of information. "Witness?"

"Nope. He said he wants to help solve the case."

"Really. 'S he a police officer?"

"Uh…I'll go check. Back in a mo'."

Nicholas spent that 'mo' going over the list of evidence that had been found at the crime scene. Nothing pointed to a clear cause of death, or even the presence of another person (possibly a witness, possibly a murderer). He sighed and rubbed at his temples with the tips of his fingers, and wondered if it could have been an accident. He discarded the idea immediately.

"He's a 'consulting detective', whatever that is. Less annoying than the Andes, though."

That was already a plus in his column, as far as Nicholas was concerned. They still liked to play idiotic pranks on him, which got old. Honestly. He was above revenge. Really. It wasn't like he'd done anything in their office since they were on holiday so that they would receive a nasty shock when they came back – how dare you suggest such a thing.

"Oh, and he said to call DI Lestrade in London if you needed to check his credentials."

Nicholas picked up the phone.

OoOoOoOoOo

Gregory managed to sit himself down on his favourite armchair when the phone rang. He groaned. Finally, a chance to relax without the stress of any major cases, and no Sherlock to look after (granted, John Watson did most of the looking after now), and this.

He glanced at the screen. _Unknown number_.

Well…it wasn't exactly Sherlock's _style_ – and, oh, he'd hate that Lestrade even thought that he _had_ a style – to call. He liked messaging too much. Hopefully it wasn't some madman on the other line. Gregory answered the call and put the phone to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Greg?"

He raised his eyebrows in pleasant surprise. "Nicholas. Hi. Long time. You're stationed in Sanford, last I heard."

"Yeah. Uh, listen mate, I'd love to catch up, but the thing is I've got a – well, possible homicide on my hands here."

"Uh-huh. What d'you want me to – oh. Sherlock's there, isn't he?" He'd almost forgotten the snippy message he'd gotten earlier that day.

"…yes. Who is he, exactly?"

Gregory sighed, and resisted saying "A pain", because Sherlock wasn't, not really. Not all the time. Anyway. "He helps out with some of the more…difficult cases here. He's supposed to be on holiday."

"Would you recommend him, then?"

He actually had to think about it. Would he actually recommend Sherlock to anyone? (And God, that sounded like he was some sort of pimp and Sherlock his prostitute. Not a good image.) "Look, Nick… He's great at what he does. But he's a little…difficult to work with."

"Arrogant?"

"…something like that. I'm not his keeper, so I can't really forbid him from helping you with your possible homicide. It's your call."

Nicholas' voice sounded doubtful on the other end. "Right. Thanks, Greg."

"No problem. Good luck."

"Good luck with wh –"

DI Lestrade felt bad for ending the call then. He had meant what he said, though. Nicholas would need all the luck – and patience – in the world.

He sighed, and got up off his favourite chair and walked into the kitchenette. He needed a beer. 

OoOoOoOoOo

"Dead ginger midget. Cause of death?"

Nicholas got to his feet, somewhat at a loss as to how to respond. The man who had barged into the room (ahead of Danny and another man behind him) was tall and curly-haired and had a dispassionate expression.

"Well?" he demanded.

"Sarge, this' Sherlock Holmes. And this is Dr. John Watson."

"Sergeant Nicholas Angel."

The first man, the detective, sighed noisily and shook the hand proffered to him. He even waited until Nicholas had greeted the doctor before saying again, "Cause of death?"

"Have a seat," Nicholas offered, before, "We don't know, yet. We're hoping you can tell us – we're currently understaffed."

Sherlock had pulled out a phone. It was bright pink. "I know. Usually there're seven of you, not counting the German Shepherd."

"…yes. How did you –"

"Know? I'm not blind."

"Um, what are your theories on what could've happened, Sergeant?" asked the soft-spoken companion of the detective. Nicholas liked him – he was disciplined, possibly a war veteran.

"Well, it's murder, obviously –"

"Obviously?" Sherlock hadn't looked up from his phone. "Isn't it a little premature to rule out an accident, Sergeant?"

A pained smile. "One thing I've learned in Sanford, Mr. Holmes, is that few things are accidents – especially deaths."

"An interesting take on life, to be sure." He pocketed the phone, and smiled. It was somewhat frightening an expression. "And you must have had a very interesting month to have learned that so fast."

_How could he have possibly known that_? Nicholas found it easier not to ask; because this was obviously something the detective did often if Dr. Watson's sigh and eye-rolling were any indication.

"Anyway, there wasn't a sign of a struggle, so whoever the killer was, the victim knew him. And no obvious wounds or trauma when we found the body."

Dr. Watson, who had chosen to stand and had been writing in a notebook (oh, Nicholas liked him even more now), looked up. "Can we take a look at the body?"

"Yes, of course, I –" Nicholas broke off as the phone rang. "Excuse me. Hello? Yes, Mr. Staker, I – not again? Right. We'll get on it." Nicholas replaced the receiver with a sigh. "Danny?" he called.

"Yep?" The other sergeant poked his head around the doorway.

"Code S."

"Awh, not _again_." He made a face. "Can't I just take Saxon with me?"

"_No_. The point is that we get Gemma back alive."

John frowned. "Code S?"

Nicholas sighed again. "It's something that happens quite often here. Don't worry about it. It's not relevant."

"Gemma is some sort of escaped animal, I assume?"

"Got it in one. Now, if you'd like to follow me…"

OoOoOoOoOo

"Our coroner, Dr. Blackwell."

"Ah, call me Bill."

Sherlock shook the man's hand briskly. Widower. Living with daughter and her son – who was likely 2 years old. And was named Rory. "Dr. Blackwell, what can you tell us about the body?"

"Well, it's the Reardon boy, isn't it? Even I remember that."

"And what can you tell us about how he _died_?"

Bill Blackwell shrugged good naturedly, hands in his pockets. "I wouldn't know, would I? I didn't kill 'im."

The sergeant, who'd been standing unobtrusively off to the side, put his head in his hand and sighed.

"I see." The curve of Sherlock's lips could be called a smile. If you were blind. "Would you mind if we took a look?"

"Be my guest." He glanced at his watch – ah, in his 60s. "It's my knocking off time, and I need to pick Rory up from day care." He nodded at the three men. "Mr. 'Olmes, Dr. Watson. Sarge", and then left.

"I'm really sorry about that," said Sergeant Angel. "Bill's only just moved back to Sanford –"

"How did his wife die?" Sherlock interrupted.

"…sorry?"

"His wife." Impatient. "How'd she die?"

"How did you –" Nicholas shot a glance at Dr. Watson, who gave him a look as if to say, '_Yeah, he does that._' "Uh, old age."

The consulting detective dismissed this information and took out his magnifying glass to scrutinise Luke Reardon's left ear. _Yes, of course. He almost missed that. _He snapped gloves over his hands and lifted the corpse's upper lip to reveal missing 12, 11, 21 and 22. (That is, right lateral incisor, right central incisor, left central incisor and left lateral incisor respectively, for those of you unfamiliar with FDI notation of tooth classification.)

"What are you –" Nicholas started to ask, but Sherlock shushed him noisily. John kept telling him to be less rude when wanting quiet – Sherlock's retort was that rudeness was what most people understood best. Other instances of where this theory was proven accurate played in his mind, over the swirling whirl of his usual thoughts, as he picked up a hand and sniffed at the fingers. _Hmm. Interesting. Very interesting_.

"John."

Sherlock was gratified that John knew him well enough that he no longer had to ask what it was that Sherlock wanted. In this case it was to pull on a pair of gloves as well and inspect the body.

He was sure people – not least of all John – wondered why he wanted John around. Someone of his intellect should not want for human company, and he didn't. He didn't need John for the money – his trust fund was quite substantial. But the doctor held his own against Sherlock – he wasn't intimidated or annoyed like plebeians usually were – and he had his own strengths (marksmanship and slight knowledge of the solar system came to mind). There was something about John Watson that Sherlock couldn't quite put his finger on.

(There were some things he _did_ want to put his fingers on, but he didn't entertain those thoughts for very long. Even if Sarah had been an unmitigated disaster.)

"Sherlock?"

He blinked. Odd. He didn't usually 'space out' – in fact, he didn't. "Yes, John?"

"D'you mind moving? Only, you're breathing down my neck."

"Yeah. Yeah, sure." Sherlock cleared his throat as he swished away from the body on the slab, and turned to Sergeant Angel. "After we're done here, we'll need to go to the crime scene."

He almost didn't notice Nicholas' slight smile before the blond man nodded. He didn't notice John's.

OoOoOoOoOo

They'd had to wait until morning to go to Thistle Road, because it was unsafe to get to when it was dark. John was just happy he was able to sleep last night without Sherlock coming in to jump on his bed and demand to be entertained.

John winced inwardly as his brain decided it was the right time to be showing images of bouncing beds and Sherlock and _entertainment_. Thoughts like that had been the reason he'd gone out with Sarah in the first place – he had genuinely liked her, but their relationship had just…fizzled.

With Sherlock, however, there were sparks.

He shook his head, as if physically trying to get those notions to fly out of his ears, and instead concentrated on the notes he had scrawled so far:

_32, male, red-haired_

_Dwarf __Midget _[this had been corrected because Sherlock insisted he was misrepresenting foreshortened people]

_Missing upper incisors_

_No struggle_

_No external injuries – except to left ear (unknown cause)_

_Escaped animal (?)_

_No footprints at scene – except victim's, witness'_

_Sherlock = quite a nice bum_

John blinked, and stared at the paper some more. No, he _had_ actually written that. He surreptitiously cancelled it out with his pen, and tore off the page underneath. Just in case.

It must have been when Sherlock had bent over to check the undergrowth. He'd forgotten his coat, and John hadn't reminded him. He'd forgotten, really. (He hadn't been distracted, okay? Even if Sherlock had been wearing that purple Thai silk shirt.)

He shook his head again.

"Alright there, Dr. Watson?"

John looked up and saw Danny, who seemed concerned and curious.

"Yes, yes, of course. Oh, and call me John."

Danny smiled at him. "How do you take your tea?"

They were back at the 'station, possibly to collate data. John was taking the opportunity to have brunch. He was starving. "Black, one sugar."

OoOoOoOoOo

"D'you want tea, Nicholas?"

"Hmm? Oh. Yes, please."

Danny smiled and handed him a teacup-and-saucer, just the way he liked it. "Here you go."

Nicholas' answering smile was brilliant. "Thanks, Danny." He sipped at his tea, letting the blissfully hot liquid trickle down his throat and into his stomach. He glanced at the consulting detective – was there even such a thing? – beside him, who was already staring at him.

"What?"

"There's quite some homoerotic tension between you and your partner."

Rather than casually deny it like he usually did, Nicholas instead replied, "I could say the same for you."

"Pardon?"

"You and Dr. Watson." The sergeant raised an eyebrow when this theory wasn't immediately dismissed. He took the silence as cue to continue. "I've been observing your interactions with him, you know."

"Interesting. Few people do."

"What, observe?"

"Precisely."

OoOoOoOoOo

"Cake?" Danny offered.

"Don't mind if I do," said John, flexing his hand before accepting the plate given to him with a smile. "They'll be awhile."

A snort. "You're telling me." He paused. "You think he'd want a slice?" he asked, gesticulating with the knife he held.

"Who –" John glanced very quickly and a look of realisation dawned. "Oh, no, no, no. He doesn't eat when he's on a case."

"Sounds like Nicholas," said Danny, trying – and somehow managing – to grin with a mouth full of fruitcake. "I'm pretty sure he doesn't deliberately do it, but when he's on a case he's just _sooo_ focused that he forgets." He put another piece of cake in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. "Then again, he wasn't ever that big on cake."

This seemed rather scandalous a prospect, as John was quite fond of cake with his tea – though whether or not there was edible cake in the apartment was another matter entirely – but he didn't comment. "Yeah, well, Sherlock _does_ do it on purpose. He says it helps him focus."

"It's the opposite with me, I'm afraid," the – let's face it – rather stout sergeant said self-depreciatingly. "I like cake too much."

"Nothing wrong with that."

"Thanks mate."

The door opened, and PC Walker burst in, and John honestly could not decipher a word of what he said. Luckily Danny acted as the room's translator (though, to be honest, Sherlock in all probability didn't need one).

"He's found Gemma!"

Across the room, Sherlock raised a forefinger.

"Is Gemma a…swan?"

"Yep," answered Danny easily.

That explained 'Code S'. But why was it important?

Nicholas shook his head. "You can't be serious."

"I'll have to run some tests, but I am confident."

There was silence. Then Danny broke it, with:

"So…the swan did it."

OoOoOoOoOo

"You seem annoyed."

"Oh, really, Sherlock? How did you guess that?"

"I didn't guess. You're showing quite obvious signs of irritation."

John rolled his eyes. "You really want to know?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Since you've solved the case in two days – less, actually – we still have twelve days here where I have to deal with you!"

He tried not to feel stung. It was something of an ineffectual attempt. "You haven't been averse to dealing with me before."

"When you're bored, Sherlock, you're a little…well. Even I have my limits."

He lowered his gaze. "I apologise."

John sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "No, don't. I…I'm sorry, Sherlock. You didn't deserve that."

"I did."

"No, I –" John cut himself off, and because Sherlock wasn't looking at him, he couldn't see the smirk on his face. He could hear it in his voice though. "I've got it."

"You've 'got' what?"

"I know how I can keep you from being bored. And how I can keep myself from being driven insane."

Sherlock's grey eyes met John's blue ones. "…how?"

John kissed him.

OoOoOoOoOo

"Boys! You're back from your honeymoon!"

"Uh…holiday, Mrs. Hudson. Not –" John's protest was cut off as he was engulfed in a hug – even though Mrs. Hudson was a tiny thing, she managed to pull off engulfing him, perhaps because John was a tiny thing as well. (Despite the fact that he had decided to change the parameters of his and Sherlock's relationship, he didn't think he wanted all and sundry to know about it.)

"Did you enjoy yourselves?"

"In a manner of speaking," said Sherlock, stooping down to kiss the motherly woman on the cheek. "Did anyone call?"

"No, dear," was the reply, as Mrs. Hudson scrutinized him. "You look healthy. Both of you should go visit the country more often, take more breaks instead of getting all mixed up with the police and murders."

"Er, right."

"Oh, and I tidied up a bit – but I've only done the one bedroom." John was rather horrified when she winked. "You'll only need the one right now, I expect."

"Mrs. Hudson!" (Again, John protested mostly because of how freakishly accurate their landlady was. Because although they had chosen separate rooms with separate beds at the Holmes' Sanford home, there was only ever one bed being used – and sometimes not even that.)

"What? I won't tell a soul – you boys do your own laundry, after all. Be good dears and don't make too much noise, hmm?"

Sherlock saved John from further embarrassment by nudging him in the direction of the stairs, gallantly taking up their bags. Even so, the doctor was sure that he would spontaneously combust, judging by the heat in his face. He sat in his favourite squishy armchair, and rubbed at his cheeks.

"Milk. We're always out."

"I made sure not to buy it, since I knew we'd be away for two weeks. It'd only go bad."

"We should go out later and get some."

John paused, and twisted in the chair to look at Sherlock, whose attention was fixated on something _jiggly_ in the fridge. "_We_?"

"Yes, we. Shopping is a suitably couple-y thing to do, isn't it?"

"…you want to do couple-y things with me."

"Yes. Why is this so surprising to you?"

John shrugged and settled back into his pillowed chair. "Dunno."

"Still, that'll have to be later." When had Sherlock suddenly appeared in front of him?

"And why's that?"

John watched in interest as Sherlock dropped to his knees in front of the armchair, delicately placing his warm hands on John's shins looking up demurely from under his eyelashes. "Because we're busy."

Swallow. "Yes. Busy."

And then, right at the precise moment when Sherlock was leaning forward (John had learned that he was _suspiciously_ good at unbuttoning and unzipping with his teeth), his thricedamned phone rang, giving him the shock of his life and causing him to almost knee Sherlock in the face.

He fished it out – or he would have, had Sherlock not plucked it out of his hand and tossed it carelessly over his shoulder.

"Very busy," he said pointedly, and John couldn't do anything but smile. (And then moan, and then – well, nothing very coherent followed.)

On the screen of the Nokia, before the screen turned off to conserve power, was:

_Congratulations. MH._

OoOoOoOoOo

It's rushed, and it's horrid (not to mention unbetaed), but I could care less. For Jess, who inspired it all.

Don't own BBC's Sherlock (although Sherlock is the intellectual property of the public), nor do I own Hot Fuzz.

Anila.


End file.
